


Pools of Sorrow, Waves of Joy

by champagne_enema



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: 60s AU, Artist Keith (Voltron), Based off of a musical, Bisexual Lance (Voltron), British Keith (Voltron), F/F, F/M, Gay Keith (Voltron), M/M, New York City, POV Alternating, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-War, References to the Beatles, Vietnam War, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-09
Updated: 2018-02-09
Packaged: 2019-03-16 01:09:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13625367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/champagne_enema/pseuds/champagne_enema
Summary: Keith came to America to find his father. He found something much better.Let's just hope he can stop it all from falling apart.





	Pools of Sorrow, Waves of Joy

**Author's Note:**

> I promised myself I wouldn't post this until I had another chapter written but I couldn't wait!!!!! ((so, as a result, the updating schedule will be all out of wack, oops)) Anyway! This is an au from the lovely movie Across the Universe, which is just,,,,, so good seriously if you haven't already seen it go watch it,,,, 
> 
> (also, like, I'm super american so all of the british shit is probably horrendously wrong,,,,, much apologies to any british folk reading this cause haha I suck //yikes)
> 
> (also also the pov is really hectic and the story jumps around alot so sorry for that too)

The yards are cold. 

The shipyards, that is.

Then again, everything is cold around here. Keith knows this, has known this his whole life, but the knowledge doesn’t stop him from shivering and shoving his numb fingers into the pockets of his coat as he walks with the rest of the workers to get his wages for the month.

The line goes out the door, and Keith is one of the last few left in line, stuck waiting out in the bitter air of Liverpool, with nothing but his heavy black coat and fingerless gloves to keep him warm.

Keith’s blood runs hot, anyway. 

He absentmindedly listens to the chatter as the line recedes, more and more men getting their checks and heading home. He doesn’t have many friends, tends to stick to himself, so he simply observes and daydreams about the upcoming week. 

_Just a day and I’ll be on my way to America._

Ah, yes. America, land of the free, home of the brave. Also home to the man who slept with his mother twenty years ago and buggered off back to the states after a month of shagging his mum. Keith is determined to find the man, if only for closure. He has no intentions of bonding with his “father”, in all honesty he couldn’t care less if the bloke just off and died. But, well, his mum didn’t tell him she was pregnant, so he feels obligated to inform him that he’s got a son, albeit nineteen years too late.

When he gets to the front of the line, the old crone slides his spectacles down his crooked nose. “Headin’ to the states, I hear?” Keith bobs his head in response, reaching for the notes clutched in his withered hands. 

“Ya know, when I was your age, I thought the same bloody thing. Thought to meself, _when I’m sixty four, I’ll be long gone from this sorry dump_ ,” he chortles, releasing the paper and letting Keith grab his money. “Yet I’m still ‘ere.” Keith gives him a steady look. Their eye contact is broken when he hears another man from somewhere behind him complain “Get on with it, then. The pubs ‘ave been open five minutes!”  

Keith shoves the pounds into his pocket, crumpled up, and sulks out of the building. The walk home is chilly, just like everything else, but he walks with a slight spring in his step. When he opens the door and steps inside the dingy home, his mum calls out a rushed greeting from the main room.

She’s ironing when he walks in. “I’ve ironed your best shirts. You'll be needin em soon enough.”

He hugs her, kissing her head as he does. “Mum, I won't be needing to dress nice. Most like I'll just spend my time in the pubs.” She reaches up her hand in response and thwacks him on the back of the head. “You'll do no such thing! I didn't raise no drunkard to just louse away in one of the greatest countries in the world!”

“It's not that great, mum.” he grumbles. She scoffs at him, shoving a pile of shirts into his arms. “Go pack these, then, you rascal.”

He holds them in his arms and pauses to give her a fond look. Sometimes, especially lately, his heart aches when he looks at her. She’s still so beautiful, with her black hair pulled up away from her smooth face and her brown eyes twinkling with mirth. He loves her. She’s been his whole world for so long, his only family. It’s always been them two against the world. It hurt, not having a father, but not as much as it should. She somehow made it feel like he’d never needed a father figure. She was enough for him. 

He doesn’t want to leave her. The thought of leaving brings painful twangs to his heart, like broken glass _stabbing and stabbing_. But he knows he has to. He can’t stay here, in cold, shitty Liverpool working in the yards and wasting his life. He knows there’s more out there, more to living, and he’s determined to find a purpose. Hopefully he finds it in America.  

She smiles, warm and bittersweet, as if she senses his thoughts. And maybe she does. Maybe she knows and agrees with him, and that’s why she’s not fighting his departure with tooth and nail. She’s letting him go, not without sorrow, but also with pride and hope. 

“Alright, mum. I’ll be back down for supper.”

In his dingy room (everything around here is dingy, he notices) he shoves the folded shirts in his duffel bag before laying back on his mattress to stare at the ceiling. He’s got an old sports poster on his roof, hung up with old nails and fading at the edges. He’s got his own sketches and drawing tacked to the walls, all messy and charcoaled. The walls are dark blue, the window is small and outside is clouded and dark. Everything seems black and white, all dark colors and grayscale. He hopes for some color when he gets to New Jersey.

He has a lot of hopes for the “New World”. Something to break the montonity of his life. And, of course, his father. 

Keith reaches in his pocket to pull out a folded, damp paper. He peels it open and stares at the picture. It’s of his mum and dad. They’re both young, far too young. His dad is in uniform, having been deployed in Liverpool during the war when he met her. They look happy. He wonders what caused him to leave and head home without a trace. Why hadn’t he stayed? Or written? What made his make such a clean break? 

And why isn’t Keith upset that he did?

 

* * *

 

 _Still cold,_ he thinks as he stands at the docks, his mum at his side. She holds his hand, brittle, clammy fingers gripping his own fingers so tight it hurts. He doesn’t complain. Men move around them, boarding and calling out to each other and working. They’re loud, _so loud_ , and yet all he can focus on his his mother, with her windswept hair and red-rimmed eyes.

“Promise me you’ll write, you bastard.”  

Keith’s laughter is abrupt and shocked as he wraps her up in a hug. He’s not exceptionally tall, but he’s still taller than her. She presses her face into his neck, arms locking around him. “Of course, _of course_. Every day, if I have to.”

She sniffs into his coat. “And keep warm. Stay away from drugs. Don’t get into trouble.” She pauses her neurotic tirade. “Actually, don’t go. Just come on, let’s go home.” She starts to pull him, but he laughs and stops her. “Mum, I’m going. I’ll be safe. I’m not an idiot.”

“That’s debatable.”

“Mum!”

She laughs and kisses him on the forehead, icy fingers holding his cheeks. Her eyes are less scared and more soft, now. “I love you. Write me first thing when you get off.”

Keith bobs his head, throat tight, and sniffs. “First thing.”

And then he’s walking away. His feet feel like lead, heavy as he steps farther and farther from home and comfort. From everything he’s ever known. But his eyes look ahead, trained on the skyline as he makes his way forward.

He doesn’t feel as cold anymore.

 

* * *

 

Lance is sweating.

Panting.

 _Running_.

“Shit, shit, _shit!_ ” he cusses as he bolts across the quiet campus. He’s rumpled, barely even dressed proper. His mom (actually, scratch that, his whole _family_ ) would freak if she saw him now, running like a madman with nothing on but a half-buttoned shirt and his boxers. Oh, and his left sock. He wonders why he’s still got a sock, particularly the left one, actually.

“ _Sonuvabitch_ , get back here!” thunders from behind him. He doesn’t want to look back, frightened of the sight that awaits back there. He’s a lover, not a fighter, and has no intention of changing that today. 

“Sorry, bud, no can do! I kinda like my face the way it is!” he cries back at the enraged boyfriend currently chasing him. And, _and!_ It’s not his fault. He had no idea the girl, _Nyma_ , had a boyfriend. She hadn’t mentioned him as Lance came onto her, and _certainly_ didn’t say anything when he’d taken off his pants.

It’s dark, the sun having receeded several hours ago, replaced with the glistening moon and twinkling stars. It’s a beautiful night, perfect for a good game of rooftop golf, but instead of enjoying the sight (or, you know, enjoying himself between Nyma’s smooth and deliciously thick thighs) he’s stuck running across campus away from a madman who thinks he’s slept with his girlfriend.

Well, okay, _yeah_ , he’d slept with the guy’s girlfriend. Semantics! Lance is still the innocent one here!

He jumps down onto a dip in the pavement, where a door sits that most likely leads to a basement of sorts. Lance doesn’t know. All he knows is the brick wall looks like an excellent hiding place, which he’s in dire need of, because he _can’t fucking breathe_. Shit.

Some guy, who is admittedly the hottest guy Lance has ever seen (not now, gay thoughts), is leaning against the wall with a smoke dangling between his rosy lips. He stares at Lance in shock, for a split second, before opening the door for Lance to scurry in to (which he does). The guy tosses his cigarette butt into the bush outside of the door and joins him in a mad rush to god knows where.

The hallway is long and dark, with pipes that he has to duck under, and he keeps running even when there’s a set of stairs in front of him. He hears the guy running behind him, their collective footsteps ricocheting around them.

The guy somehow manages to catch up and _what?_ run ahead of him. He turns the corner, flings open a door, and throws himself inside. Lance is 50% sure he’s about to get murdered, but he can’t find it in himself to really care when he collapses on the floor and looks up at the breathless, smiling angel above him.

Jesus Christ.

The guy heaves out another breath and raises his brow in amusement.

Lance decides to get the ball rolling, still panting as he says . "Shit, I'm out of shape," he says, still grinning. "Whoo."

He doesn't say anything. just pants and makes himself comfortable on the cot. Lance takes the time to quickly look around at his surroundings. It's obviously a workers quarters, nestled amongst pipes and buried under the campus. Lance vaguely remember the guy from earlier, who had ran into him and inquired about some janitor of sorts, though Lance isn't too sure. He makes as such known.  
  
"You're the guy who was asking for the janitor, right?"  
  
"Yeah," And, _wow_ . He's got a pretty accent, all British twang and foreign in ways Lance isn't used to. Lance wants to flirt a little, like he would if this guy was a girl, but unfortunately he's learned it's safe to hide any attraction towards the same gender if he wants to keep all of his fingers.  
  
"So what are you, like the assistant janitor?"  
  
"I'm just bunking down here temporarily," He snaps, kinda short and irritated. Still sounds nice, though. He decides to not take offense and continue. "Why?"  
  
"Why do you need to know?" _Touchy much?_ His unwarranted anger raises suspicion. "Wanted by the cops? FBI?" he asks, playful but curious.  
  
"You know, it looks to me as though you're the one who's one the run." the guy shoots back, lips upturning slightly. It's cute. And obviously the guy knows how to come back with something witty. Maybe he learned to be a wise ass from wherever he's from.  
  
"Yeah," Lance concedes. "Thank you for that, by the way."  
  
"What would that lot've done if they'd caught you?" the brit asks.  
  
"Not sure. something involving genitalia and shoe polish, I'd bet," The guy chuckles.

"So," Lance asks, "Where's that accent from?" He's curious, has been this while conversation, so the question was long coming. 

"Same place as me," he says, with an eyebrow of his own. "Liverpool."  
  
"Do you have a name?"  
  
He nods, pleased. "Yeah," he says, smiling. "It's Keith."  
  
"Lance,"  he responds, holding out his hand amiably. Keith reaches out and grabs it, giving it a firm shake. "Well, Keith," says Lance "As a stranger to our shores, the least I can do is offer you some Ivy League hospitality."  
  
Lance reaches to his shirt pocket and pulls out a flask, tosses it over with a crooked smile, and Keith catches it and gives it a curious look. After discerning that it's alcohol, he opens it and takes a swig.  
  
"Cheers."

 

* * *

 

"So," Lance asks after Keith has had a drink or two or maybe eight or ten, it's not really important. "What brings you to our fair shores?"

Keith just shrugs. "'S not important. Got bored of the docks."

And there go the eyebrows again; honestly Lance’s eyebrows have a mind of their own. They’re perfectly shaped and trimmed and move just like his hands when he talks. Keith has never seen someone with so many expressions. Then again, Keith is used to solemn faces and crooked teeth. This guy has the straightest, whitest teeth Keith has ever seen in his _life_.

"I don't believe you, but keep your secrets. I'll get them eventually."

Maybe Keith should be bothered by this. He isn't. Even if he worries that he isn't entirely safe, it's a strangely interesting idea. He admits Lance is insanely attractive in a clean-cut way. His hair is trimmed and straight (though he has an inkling that it’s naturally curly) and though he’s half naked he still seems posh. And his legs are just―wow. Long and lean and smooth.

"Well," Lance declares, "my lost English lamb. I am adopting you."

"Oh really?" Keith returns the eyebrows again, this time with more skepticism. "Is that so?"

Not that he really minds. The cheap whiskey is making things very warm and his fingers feel full of pins and needles and Lance is really very good-looking, if a bit pointy.

"Because," Lance stands up so his gestures can be bigger. "America is a big place for lost souls, and I would hate to see you lost amid the debaucherous halls of our fair campus." He puts one hand on the back of Keith's chair and the other on the desk and Keith feels trapped. Keith doesn't think he really minds this either. "Or, even worse, holed up beneath the plumbing," Lance adds.

"So," Lance says. "Let's go meet the boys."

 

* * *

 

 

On the walk over to his house, Lance explains what a fraternity is and Keith decides it sounds like a combination of a seven-year-old's treehouse no-girls-allowed club and a secret gay cult.

"Boys," Lance declares as they enter the large, wood-paneled room, "this is Keith. I have adopted him and now must treat him with a proper Princeton welcome. Play nice.."

Keith misses their names (basic, forgettable names like Tom or Bill) but Lance shoves him in the direction of the couch as he heads toward his own room to put on some clothes. The guys look ridiculous, dirty shoes sprawled on fancy leather couches, drinking cheap beer in a room that looks like a cross between a library and a hunting lodge. One of them―Max―passes Lance a joint that Keith is a little jealous didn't make it to him first. Then Lance hands it to him and Keith takes a hit, feeling warm and giddy. Ivy League hospitality, indeed.

Lance says something to one of the boys (Keith isn’t really paying attention) and jumps over the back of the couch. He runs his hand up the poster of a half-naked blonde, pressing his lips to her face. Keith is too busy coughing to really care and the room has gone an interesting kind of wobbly. "And this," Lance says, "is my girlfriend. One of many, really."

"Leave her alone, Lance," one of the boys laughs.

Lance grins. "You’re just jealous she loves me more than you," he declares.

The one that Keith thinks might be Bill scoffs. "Like Lance could get a doll like that," he says, with an arch of his eyebrow. "Now I, however, am a pleasure to have between your legs," he adds, and grabs his crotch for emphasis.

Max, Keith is sure that’s his name, roll his eyes and shoves at Bill or whatever. "Keep telling yourself that. Now come on, let's get to the damn bar already, I've had enough of drinking with only your ugly mugs."

 

* * *

 

 

They saunter into the bar, leering at anything they pass that's wearing a skirt.

They order pitchers and Lance flirts shamelessly with the waitress, winking and jokingly chasing her back to the counter before an elderly man starts looking his direction and joking about falling in love or something―he laughs that off, like everything else, as he heads back to the table.

"So, who's up for losing at pool?" he announces as he comes back, leaning his body against Keith’s chair. He feels electric, buzzing and wild. Lance is certainly something, like a drug, addictive and _alive_.

The migration to the pool table is loud and Tom grabs a cue off the rack and promptly hits Max across the ass with it. "You," he says, "will be well acquainted with my stick before the night is done."

"The only one handling your stick will be you, as usual," Max retorts. "While that redhead by the bar will be thoroughly enjoying mine."

"Stop your swooning and let's get on with this game," Lance says from behind Keith.

They all start playing, Keith foregoing the game to simply watch them all make fools of themselves. Lance is alarmingly good, though. It’s almost frightening how well his aim is.

Keith realizes that he needs this. After running into Lance this morning, asking him for a “Professor Kogane?” and him responding with “oh! You mean Ken Kogane, the janitor. He’s over there.” (which had been mortifying). Meeting the worn bloke that’s his father, who’s a complete arse and disappointment, was no less mortifying. Keith came to the states to meet his father, but instead met a shoddy janitor who’s got a new family, embarrassed as he says “I’m afraid I can’t invite you round for Thanksgiving.” whatever that is, Keith doesn’t care.

He tells him that Keith can stay in the boiler room, hidden away in a cot on the floor. Definitely not what he’d been expecting.

A pretty girl walks by their table and causes a mass head-turning, rousing Keith from his brooding. Keith jokes about love at first sight he shoots a quick look in Lance’s direction. Lance chuckles and says “I’m certain it happens all the time.”

After some time of losing at pool (Lance is insanely good at anything the requires aim) someone suggests they go play golf, which Keith doesn’t quite get. Golf? Where are they going to play golf?

He hadn’t thought their frat was the place to do it.

"Boys," Lance says, "I think it's time to put Keith's pretty mouth to better use."

They apparently know what Lance is talking about while Keith is confused. So confused that he doesn't notice as they push him towards the fire escape.

"Up we go!" Bill says happily.

Why is Tom carrying a golf bag? Bugger that, he's too busy worrying about not falling off the metal staircase and dying to care.

Or at least, he is until they get to the top and Bill and Max playfully push him to the ground. At first he's too busy laughing to be worried but once he's actually on the ground he's definitely more concerned.

"This won't hurt a bit, I promise," Lance says as he rifles through his pockets before Tom tosses him a club. "I will take excellent care of that lovely mouth of yours. Breaking your teeth would ruin your accent."

Then there is a fucking golf tee in his mouth and Lance is definitely way too fucking drunk to be holding a fucking golf club near Keith's face. Keith tries to move the tee from the ball, which Bill is unceremoniously trying to balance on the damn thing. He manages to still long enough for them to get the ball on, and Keith closes his eyes in fear as the club descends. All Americans really are fucking bonkers.

"There now," Lance says, following the sound of the ball being hit and flying off to god knows where. "Was that so hard?"

 

* * *

 

 

"So Keith," Lance drawls as they lay on the floor in a big heap. Bill has got his legs on Keith’s stomach, and his own head lays on Lance’s. It’s all very warm, and Keith is exhausted. Pleasantly exhausted, though. He feels for the first time since he’s arrived to America that he’s having fun. That he doesn’t want to go home. "Where are you headed next?"

Keith blinks in confusion. "Well, nowhere, I suppose," he slurs.

He rolls his head to the side to look at Keith. His blue eyes, deep and glinting, are squinted with the effort of keeping them open. His voice is thick with exhaustion as he slurs out “Have you got anywhere to spend Thanksgiving?”

Keith remembers the term from his shit-head of a father, but he’s too tired to ask what the bloody hell it is. Instead he just shakes his head. Lance gasps in shock, like he’s horrified at the reveal, and says “Well, then, you must come with me! We’ll eat turkey and listen to my parents talk about horrendously boring politics!”

Keith doesn’t think that sounds fun at all, to be honest, but he really likes Lance. He’s fun, and Keith feels on fire with him. _Invincible_.

“Alright then. Your place it is.”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> remember, a comment a day keeps the crippling depression away!!!


End file.
